


We Two Kings

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Fluff and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 03:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12879657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: Holmes and Watson consider Christmas, and all of its foibles.





	We Two Kings

“Dr. Watson,” said Mrs. Hudson, our smiling landlady. “The postman's been. He's left some letters, and what looks to be a Christmas card. The card is addressed to you.”

I raised an eyebrow as the morning mail was thus deposited upon our breakfast table. I flicked a finger through the pile. A bookshop advertisement sheet; a 'begging' letter; a final demand; and last of all, the card addressed to me.

“Holmes,” I said, amused and quite delighted, “I have a card!” I paused a moment to reflect. “I don't usually receive cards.” I scooped up the envelope to examine it, frowning at the script. “I don't recognise the writing.”

“Well, how very lovely,” said my friend, moving across to me from his slouch next to the fireplace. “ _You_ have a Christmas card, but all _I_ have is a pile of tat.”

“I'm so sorry,” I replied, apologetic. I crossed to our bay window, where the daylight was trying its best upon this dreary, cloudy day in dark December. I slid a thumbnail underneath the flap and, probing, withdrew the content. By this point, Holmes had followed me and was standing at my back with his sharp chin upon my shoulder – an odd behaviour which this past year I had grown used to – to the best of my ability. The card depicted a merry winter scene, snow-laden countryside, a frozen pond and skaters, and small dogs yapping on the bank. At the crown of this picturesque view came the greeting: _A Bright and Merry Christmas to You_. I turned the card over to see who it was from: a scrawled name, quite illegible.

“Who is it from?” Holmes enquired.

“I have absolutely no idea,” I said. “I think from one of my arthritic patients. I can't read their writing.” I beamed happily. “It's my first card this year.”

My friend sniffed. “What is the point of a card if you don't know who it's from?” he demanded. “What, really, is the point at all?”

“You're grumpy,” I observed. “Is it because there were no cards for you, and all you have is tat?”

“Yes. No. Perhaps. But no.”

“Well, I'm glad that cleared things up,” I replied. I placed my card upon the mantelpiece, between the jackknife and a candlestick. I made a wider space beside it. “For other cards, as they arrive,” I explained to Holmes, whose frown was darkening. “Oh, Holmes. You like Christmas. Remember?”

He shrugged.

“You know you do. You liked it last year. You made snow angels out in the yard, and then we played games for gifts, and had the most wonderful lunch.”

“Yes,” said Holmes cautiously. “I liked all of that.” He thought for a moment. “But I stand firm in my belief that Christmas pudding is yucky.”

“Let's not start that again,” I said. “I don't need a headache.”

“And I don't need a pudding,” said Holmes, quite contrary. He flounced away to the sofa and threw himself down upon it. He glared up at the mantel. “I don't need cards either,” he mumbled.

I looked at him: every inch the sulking child in a poor temper for no reason. I knew full well that the festive season was prone to bringing out either the very worst or very best of any man. In Sherlock Holmes, there poured forth both in equal measure; and today, rather unfortunately, more of the former. There was still some coffee in the breakfast pot. I poured a fresh hot cup, dropped in one sugar cube, and ferried it to the sofa in the hope of faint appeasement. Holmes accepted it, begrudgingly and silently.

“You are welcome,” I said dryly.

My friend scowled. “Don't play reverse psychology with me.” He sipped noisily at his coffee. One eye dawdled up to peep at me. “Thank you.”

I sat down next to him, and lit my pipe. “You know, Holmes,” I said, “I am quite confident that you will be swamped with cards tomorrow. You must give your friends the benefit of the doubt.”

“I have no friends,” said Holmes. He reconsidered. “Well, I have you. But I mean, _proper_ friends.”

“Thank you very much,” I said, offended.

“No-one who would be silly enough to send me a silly card, anyway,” he continued, tucking his legs up and under him, and clasping his ankles. “Unless Mrs. Hudson finally goes completely doolally.”

We both stared into the fire for several minutes, contemplating such a scenario.

“What ever should we do with her, if she ever goes doolally?” my friend enquired at last.

“I'm not sure,” I said, rubbing my chin. “I expect that Mrs. Turner would cook our dinners.”

And we both shuddered at the notion.

“Let us hope, then, that it is us who go doolally first,” said Holmes. “Then Mrs. Hudson can look after us. How much older is she, do you think? How long before her knees give out?”

(Such are the conversations between two selfish bachelors.)

That afternoon I had occasion to pay a visit into town. The air that day was frigid, and so Holmes declined to walk with me. He pointed to his violin, and made a sawing gesture. So considering that I had made a fortunate escape from an ear-torturing concerto, I departed, muffled up against the elements.

When I returned a little later, the sitting-room was peaceful. The curtains had been drawn, the fire was blazing, and the table set for tea. My friend was leafing through the yellowback novel I had left upon my chair arm.

“Watson, you do read a lot of rubbish,” said he, airily. He tossed it aside as if his fingers were burned. “And where have you been? I've been bored.”

“I was not put on this earth to be your sole source of amusement,” I retorted. “I've been shopping. See, I've bought some holly, and some ribbon, and some cottonwool, and --”

Holmes groaned and shook his head and clapped his hands against his ears. “La-la-la-la-la, can't hear you, la-la-la-la-la,” he piped.

I placed down my bags, and frowned. “Don't be a child. Now then. I shall call down for some tea, and perhaps Mrs. Hudson will bring us some of that nice cake that she baked yesterday.”

In the short interval that followed I took my bags up to my bedroom, shucked my overcoat and hat and combed my hair. Several minutes later, I was back with Holmes again. I made directly for the tea table, and straightened my friend's plate. Returning to the fireside, I smiled and warmed my hands.

“The late afternoon post has been,” Holmes remarked. “There's something for you over there.”

“Oh!” I followed the direction of his finger-point, and traced it to the table. “Oh! I didn't notice.” On my own plate, a neat white envelope. “I don't recognise the writing.”

“You never do,” said Holmes. “You are the least observant man I ever met.” He joined me then, and stared down at his place. “Oh!”

We both sat down, and looked across into the other's face.

“I have an envelope,” said Holmes. “It wasn't there before. How did it get there?”

“By magic,” I said.

“I don't recognise the writing,” said my friend. He frowned. “Watson, why are you snorting?”

I shook my head, and opened up my envelope. A Christmas card, another pleasant scene: a snowman and a little robin redbreast side-by-side. I read the message and the signature inside. “Oh!” I looked up. “Holmes! It's from you.”

“Yes,” said my friend. “Merry Christmas.”

“But... but...” I snatched up the envelope. “It is postmarked. You must have posted it?”

“Your powers of deduction are _in excelsis_ , my dear fellow.” Holmes was examining his own card now – for of course, that's what it was. He smiled at me. “Oh, Watson. It's from you.”

“Yes,” I said. “It is.” 

“I was only sulking,” my friend explained, “because I wanted to be the first person to send you a card. But that arthritic nitwit got in there before me.”

“I understand,” I said. “So you do like Christmas cards, and Christmas, after all?”

“Of course I do,” said Holmes. “At least, some bits of it.” He paused. “The bits with you in.”

And I would have liked so dearly to say “Likewise!” – but my friend's ego might have popped from its inflation.

So I _could_ have said “Oh, tommyrot!” – but that would not have been the truth. 

“You're very kind, Holmes. Merry Christmas!” was quite enough. My secret stayed with me. My secret, filled with sentimental bits.


End file.
